1001 Nights
by pemberleys
Summary: One thousand and one nights, one thousand beginnings, middles, and ends. / One-shots from the AU world of Pale Fire. Night 3: Kuja is recruited into the Magisterium.
1. evenings steep'd in honeyed indolence

on the night of ch 11 (the wedding night)

* * *

 **Night 1:** evenings steep'd in honeyed indolence

In another world, Koumei would've married her.

* * *

The imperial palace is not built upon a hill, so no archers, no enemy generals could come to the capital of the Kou Empire astride their war horses and point on the horizon, exclaiming _there it is, surround the complex._ Instead it is built on flat land, in the heart of labyrinthine Rakushou, fortified with walls and gates and countless soldiers who would be the first to proudly declare that they would die for their country.

It is unlike the Summer Palace, tucked in the mountains of Tohouku, blanketed in lush greenery, and with birds singing on chilly mornings; there are no fat carp swimming lazy figure eights in the imperial palace's ponds, no carmine red gateways built on upon a mountain path every so often.

Koumei doesn't realize this until he sees her again. He doesn't anticipate missing a kingdom so different to his own, and he certainly doesn't anticipate how sharp his next breath gets when they accidentally catch each other's gaze in the banquet hall.

The whisper of Tohoku's mountain breeze is in his ears when he looks upon her for the first time in a year.

That her eyes are still the deepest shade of green is his first thought.

Then he dips his head, smiling the tiniest of smiles to himself. Of _course_ her eyes are still green in the way he remembers them—it had been a ridiculous thought to have, and besides, he always remembers the important things.

Yes, her eyes are still of a shade that would so easily be lost amongst the verdant mountain forests of Tohouku; her eyes, coupled with her white-silver hair and pale skin, still draw many an admiring glance from a would-be suitor that night.

He knows this acutely: after all, in another world, the natural consequence to a month of courting the Jishouan royalty and speaking to her father would result in their betrothal. In another world this would be _their_ wedding night: she would be wearing Sayuri's crimson and white robes, and he would be wearing Kouen's heavy set of formal robes, embroidered with the dragon of Kou. It is too difficult to tell if she would be wearing Sayuri's carefully blank face as well, but in another world he would've offered her his name and she likely would've accepted.

Before this he had never really envisioned a marriage for himself—no matter how far and how wide his mind could reach, he had kept the idea remote, and had never really _bothered_ about it—what use was a wife when he had his books and his pigeons and his brothers to keep him company?

Even now the idea stays out of his reach. But only because now he makes an effort to keep it there.

In another world he would've married her, or so he says, but the time to bring about that world has come and passed; Sayuri and Kouen have bound themselves to each other, and he remains the unwed Second Imperial Prince of Kou.

Koumei takes one moment to nod respectfully at Mameha.

Then his gaze strays, and she turns away to look at her brother sitting beside her.

In any case, it would be foolish and a waste of time to think more of such impossible things.

* * *

Notes:

I loved reading _1001 Nights_ as a child, so here's my own silly little tribute to it. Night 1's title is from a line in John Keats's poem, _Ode on Indolence._

This is a non-linear collection of stories (like the Arabian nights!) from the AU world of _Pale Fire_ that you can count as **canon**. There are a lot of side characters and would-be side plots I didn't have the time or space to explore, so here they are. If you wondered about what happened to x character or x thing...here's where they might be.

There's nothing really here that would terribly spoil _PF,_ I promise.


	2. Princes

this one can be read as sometime before the events of _pale fire._

* * *

 **Night 2** : Princes

" _Give me my robe, put on my crown; I have immortal longings in me."_

* * *

I. Shiro

They say that two things come naturally to every Jishouan man: the feel of an oar in his hands, and the burn of a mooring rope slipping through his clenched fists. True Jishouan men were born in the sea, or so they say, their adult frames tossed and molded by its fat swells. Years ago, children used to be thrown in the rushing waters and were expected to swim miles ashore on their own, to prove their worth as men. Whoever did not return simply did not return.

Although times have changed since then, the corrupted joke is still uttered in every port city where foreigners intermingle with the rowdy sailors and hardy fishermen in crowded taverns. _Y_ _ou can throw us overboard, but we've already got practice from when we were all drowned as infants._

Yet Shiro's head had always been fogged with stories about great battles fought on land, not on water; with armies whose length extended as far as the horizon and whose width stretched with interlocked shields, and men in gleaming helmets underneath a glorious sun. He remembers in great detail begging his father to send him to Caera, when he was much much younger than he is now – he had whined and pleaded to be sent to their famous military schools, and still he remembers in even greater detail his father's outright refusal.

 _There are no generals in Jishou, boy,_ the king had told him coldly, _only admirals._

He recalls his ten year old self taking an oar and carving out his own wooden sword out of spite. Jishou is a land mired in its worship for its ships and its mastery over the sea. Shiro has always considered it foolish to think that one could tame the sea; the sea is relentless, it is tireless, and it is _always_ hungry. There are many stories about ships crossing an ocean to fight Jishou's wars, but there are just as many stories of marooned sailors and entire fleets disappearing without a trace.

Every man is decreed to serve at least once in the royal navy. Spending so much time on a ship, listening to the keen of the wind, and watching the endless rise and fall of the tide, he wonders how other men haven't come to the same conclusion already.

 _We were all drowned as infants,_ so the joke goes.

This is not to say his teenaged self didn't undergo all the (ridiculous) rights of passage to be seen as a man by his peers, which at least gained him a single nod of approval from his father. Years of passive resistance have also worn the king down, and the births of Shiro's sisters have softened him. On the day Sayuri turned six the royal family had thrown a lavish banquet, and he had begrudgingly been hired the greatest swordsmen from Caera as tutors.

Though Nobshiro shows no overwhelming enthusiasm for life aboard a ship the way his father does, he is at least more than capable in other _princely_ things like administration and diplomacy.

Sometimes, he thinks of what would have happened if it were only him and his brother in the family line. If his sweet younger sisters had never been born, and the issue of the royal couple stopped at Nobushiro and Nobuyuki Jie.

If Yuki wasn't a magician – if he wasn't chosen for the Magisterium –

– Shiro _knows_ Mameyoshi would have easily plucked the crown and all the titles it entailed right off his ten year old head. He would have handed it to his brother the moment Shiro brandished that oar-carved wooden sword at the king.

 _We were all drowned as infants…_

Yet as it stands he will always and only ever be his father's firstborn son. There are good princes, _obedient_ princes out there. Princes that do not find any flaws within the nation they are one day supposed to rule. Such princes exist, that much Nobushiro is sure of; he is simply not one of them.

* * *

II. Kuja

They call him the lost prince.

Of the many titles bestowed upon him, Kuja is fondest of this one. _The lost prince, the useless prince, the wasted prince,_ the noble-blooded sons and daughters of the magician caste like to call him; he finds it much more fitting than _chosen_ or _revered magister_ or _pride of the Salman bloodline._

When he was a boy he had been very fond of his title of _Prince of Ariavat._ It entailed less scrutiny than being the heir to the throne, and he spent his childhood idly watching his sister navigate the constant squabbling and treachery of the Ariavatan noble houses. It was only him and his sister against the entire noble caste, yet Yerim had protected him from everything, even his responsibilities.

And so it came to be that young Alihaddra Kujahabar Salman, only prince of Ariavat, held everything in the palms of his hands. He had had wealth, friends, and jewels in unparalleled abundance; his days were spent in indolence, and a thousand servants labored every second to make him happy.

He'd had everything.

Everything except for time.

When he was sixteen he had been abruptly summoned back from summer in Jishou. Waiting for him in the royal palace had been one old woman with a crackling voice, and his father, looking the proudest he'd ever been.

That same day, as fate would have it, Kuja would lose everything like grains of sand sifting uselessly between his fingers.

At one time of his life he'd held the world at his fingertips; at another, he was left with nothing more than the camel below him, the robes on his back, and the expectation that he would make the long and arduous pilgrimage to the center of the desert _alone,_ and somehow he would find the Magisterium.

And they did find him.

It is the greatest honor, to be chosen for the Magisterium. Ariavat was first founded by a magi, and its kings and noble houses all descend somehow from this illustrious line. Each year the noble houses that make up the magician caste try to create the right mix of magical blood that would produce a scion worthy enough of being chosen by the magisters.

To emulate the great magi and magicians of old, and be henceforth known as the supreme bloodline in Ariavat: it is the reason why every year, a noble house must struggle.

And every child, once chosen, is forever lost to their noble house.

 _O prince,_ the same old woman from before had intoned in her low voice, upon his arrival in the Magisterium. It was the first time he'd ever been called by his title without any sort of deference, any modicum of respect. It had shaken him: never in his life had Kuja thought he would be chosen, and yet he was; never in his life had Kuja thought he would give up everything he was, and yet he did.

Kuja is a prince, yes. In nothing but name. He can comport himself like one, put on the airs and trappings of one, but never again will he feel like one, after all his years in the desert – that feeling of weightlessness is forever lost to him, even if the title that came with it isn't.

* * *

III. Alexander

Caera has a long history of princes and kings. It is a song of climaxes and nadirs, of sorrow and glory everlasting; of brother slaying brother, of wife slaying husband, of children slaying parents, and of citizens slaying kings.

Now, of course, they have lived in peace for centuries, and the cities and peoples of Caera have flourished. Still the history stays, and so do vigilance and the way of the warrior, through the military schools in its provinces.

It is a simple enough thing, being prince: for years and years Alexander knew the way his destiny would unfold, as tradition and centuries of history dictated – he would be schooled, he would take someone to wife, and he would rule one day as king. It is a small worn groove in the larger wheel of Caeran history.

And the wheel, ever-spinning, ever-finishing, completes a cycle; in one moment he watches as history, bound to repeat itself, comes alive: centuries of peace comes apart, and something in Alexander's blood answers to the call it raises.

It is his inheritance, his right as the crown prince, almost, to bear the face of what would come next. It is the natural end to centuries of peace, and the natural end to his life.

* * *

Notes:

I'm procrastinating on ch. 16 of _Pale Fire._ It's been a really long series of writes and rewrites, with a dash of _school is just really complicated sorry guise._

(1) Night 2's summary is from Shakespeare; Antony and Cleopatra, act V scene II, spoken by Cleopatra before she offs herself. Because even princes crave immortal things.

(2) Is this just a really sneaky way of writing about the three countries of the Triangle, but without writing a boring textbook explanation of what their cultures are like? Maybe. Also because I neglect Shiro a bit.

There's an accompanying design notes to this oneshot on the livejournal; it explains references and some character notes about everyone featured in Night 2.


	3. Evermore

so, ever wondered how kuja was recruited into the magisterium? it happens when he's sixteen. coincidentally (or not so coincidentally) this is when sayuri meets alexander.

* * *

 **Night 3** : Evermore

 _"Do not be afraid; our fate_

 _Cannot be taken from us; it is a gift."_

* * *

In the long line of kings and queens of Ariavat, his role in court will be looked over. It is the best he can hope for, as the younger brother of the heir to the throne; where the noble caste will scheme and the magisters will prognosticate, he will be shunted into his sister's shadow; a mere footnote when songs will be sung and tales will be told about Yerim's future reign.

He is not as smart, not as cunning, not as strong—not as important, and so his education is second-rate, if not nothing, compared to his sister's revolving army of tutors; he is unmissed during his father's boring formal meetings; his star is dim, next to his sister's burning sun.

In any case, if he were heir, he would not be able to leave his father and sister's dusty court as much as he does. Each summer his disappearance from court goes unremarked; each summer Mameyoshi spreads his arms open and welcomes him to Jishou like he would a lost son.

And so for all of this, Kuja is beyond grateful.

Now, the king peers over his shoulder, staring at the parchment he had run his brush over only moments before; Mameyoshi's hand is laden with silver and jewels, and rests on his shoulder, gentle and light. Even here, even in Tohouku with the Jishouan royalty, there is no expectation – just the king's quiet chuckle and his voice commenting on how much Kuja had seemed to improve. The praise is said with equal measures of guidance: his brushstrokes are still too timid, and the king picks out the breaks in black ink where his hand had faltered. Yet all the older man does is smile, and Kuja takes another piece of paper and begins redrawing the character.

There is a steaming cup of tea and sweet rice cakes waiting for him when they finish with calligraphy lessons. He nestles between Sayu and Yuki bantering about the quality of Yuki's work that afternoon; Sayuri's work is fine (" _of course, girls always have better handwriting!"_ there is a complaint) and the less said about Kuja's work, the better. Shiro says nothing, but his mouth twists into a grin from his writing desk in the corner of the room. The king settles in his own seat with a small sigh of contentment and prepares to tell them a story about the Triangle.

The sun is setting in the distance and the sky is bleeding a vibrant orange; the sliding doors thrown open let in the echoes of waves crashing against the cliffs of Tohouku. His eyes begin to wink shut from another summer day's exertions, and he leans his head against Sayu's.

He wishes he could stay here forever.

* * *

He wishes he could stay here forever, and everything is picturesque, until suddenly it isn't.

He is with Sayuri and her brothers when the first ill omen comes on a ship no one had expected to come, as if it were borne on the tides of fate. _You must tour my country one day,_ this omen says to Mameyoshi. His name is Alexander, the Crown Prince of Caera, and he sweeps the Jishouan court off their feet with his smiles and his easy graces.

Kuja draws Shiro aside, and everyone else is too enamored with the foreign prince to take much notice of two other princes colluding in a corner. "What the hell is _he_ doing here?" He mutters.

"I'm not sure," His friend says, his brow furrowing. "I don't like it, though."

"I don't either," Kuja grouses. But Shiro smirks at this reaction.

"Oh?" The older boy laughs. "You're really unsettled by this, aren't you?"

"Of course I am! We haven't seen the Caeran royalty in _years_ —"

"I didn't know you paid that much attention to matters of court, Kuja."

He makes a strangled noise at Shiro's nonchalance. "How can you be so—so uncaring about this!? It could be important!"

"I'm sure it is," Shiro murmurs.

There is a peculiar feeling of alarm running up his spine. He wracks his brain why the Caeran royalty would suddenly make an appearance at the Jishouan court, after years of mysterious silence; he picks apart all he knows for why they would only send their crown prince bearing chests upon chests of precious Caeran gold.

His heart jumps into his throat when he watches Alexander sweep a handsome bow before Sayu, and he feels his jaw tighten when the foreign prince drops on one knee. He is draped in the finest silk and linen, his robes outlining his warrior figure splendidly, and Sayu giggles – actually _giggles_ – at something that slips from his mouth.

His blood is running cold. Shiro is muttering to himself.

It's almost smug, when Alexander does bother to introduce himself to him. His grin is too wide and too easy and far too _charming_ , and Sayuri is watching both of them, so Kuja bites back his suspicion and forces himself to be polite. "And you must be the Prince of Ariavat," He utters, "Ali, right?"

A reluctant "yes," is all he can manage, before the Caeran prince turns his attention back to Sayuri and the king.

* * *

There is no fanfare or warning, but it is some time when another omen comes to him, a letter arriving from Ariavat. It's from his father, and as he's unfolding the letter and hastily scanning its contents, Shiro wordlessly stalks into his borrowed chambers.

"He wants to marry her."

Kuja lets the paper fall from his hands. Disappointment and hurt and surprise burn through him, too fast for him to really understand, but he knows with that single utterance of _her_ that Shiro is referring to Sayuri. Of course, what else could it have been? Alexander had come to Jishou alone, which was bold of Caera to do, but he had come bearing riches aplenty as if they would easily buy Mameyoshi's favorite daughter.

It's foolhardy, but the frown on Shiro's face worries him—worries him more than the message his father had sent. "And what does the king say?"

"I don't know. He's considering it," Shiro says. "My own sister. Sayu. That bastard wants to marry _her_. I don't believe it."

As the days had passed they had both watched Alexander perform a dangerous dance. Sword competitions and hunts and horse races there had been; each time the Caeran prince had outdone everyone, his prowess and worthiness proven multiple times. He had drawn the king for private talks, and traded intimate smiles with Sayuri—and they watched it all unfold, but Kuja suddenly couldn't stomach the idea of his deepest, oldest friend being whisked away, much less by a man that had more arrogance and good looks than any heart at all.

It shouldn't happen. That Mameyoshi is even _considering_ it is preposterous—

"Does she know?"

"No. She doesn't." And it's at this that Shiro comes up to him, his hands coming to grip his forearms. There's desperation etched into his face, and his features twist in on itself to form a pained grimace. "Kuja, I know she has to marry someone. I know she has to, eventually. But I don't want it to be _him."_

Kuja blinks. Him, Alexander—

 _It doesn't have to be him._

 _Of course,_ he thinks. _It's all so simple._

Then he scrambles out of Shiro's hold, rifling through his drawers and desk for ink and parchment. When he finishes jotting a response to his father, he looks up at his friend. "I'll fix this," He promises.

Of fate, he knows what everyone in the Triangle knows: that life follows a path, and at the end of life, all will return to the rukh. And as the magisters say: one day, the rukh will return to life, and on and on the cycle goes; there is a time and a reason for everything, and this reason is _fate._ It was fate's hand that brought Alexander to Jishou, and here now is fate's hand beckoning him to Ariavat.

It is the first instance in which he cuts his summer short just to return home. Mameyoshi is loath to let him go, but when Kuja insists, tightly explaining that his father had ordered him to rush home _at once,_ the king huffs fondly, and arranges passage for him across the sea.

To Sayuri, he leaves behind his armband; "I'm sorry I have to leave, but it's for a reason," he says as he slides the trinket down his arm to let it rest in her pretty little fingers. It is an heirloom, worn only by the princes of Ariavat, but the wonder on her face when she accepts the gift makes handing the thick rope of gold as easy as anything in the world. If anything, his armband would be a pittance compared to all he would have to offer her later—

"Come back, okay? So I can return this to you."

Her smile is so sweet, her voice soft and expectant; it is that perfect image of her that his mind chooses to preserve in the long years that come after.

* * *

What he finds at home is the end to everything he has known.

For once, his father is smiling at him, with a sumptuous meal laid out for his return. Kuja pushes past his surprise and jumps straight to business, coming to kneel at the knee of his father—"I know why you called me back, father, and I want to say, I found it suspicious too—"

The king stares at him down his nose, setting down the wine cup he'd been drinking from. Then he barks a laugh: "Suspicious! Why would you be suspicious? This is a momentous occasion, the greatest honor! What is this about?"

His confusion almost stops the words in his throat. "I—weren't you referring to Sayuri Jie's marriage?"

"That girl?" His father's brows furrow, in genuine disconnect. "What marriage? To whom?"

"The prince of Caera! Didn't you call me back to make a counterproposal?"

"Bah," The king muttered. He waved his hand. "That's good for Mameyoshi; he's finally getting rid of the women in his line. Three daughters is too much to have—"

Kuja shakes his head. "Father!"

He has never yelled at the king before. He would never have even _dared,_ but his father is babbling about—about _nonsense,_ and he doesn't even see that he could lose his best friend, _her,_ the only person to make him actually stop and consider some kind of _future_ that wasn't boring or bleak at all but instead makes him feel hopeful—

He wanted it, he had realized when Alexander planned to take her away. And now he wants it so bad he doesn't even know where to begin.

"I—I wish to marry her," Kuja says, his head bowed so low he could see nothing but his father's feet. If he knew it would help him at all, he would even get down on the ground to kiss them as he begged. "Her, Sayuri. Please— _please,_ let me offer her my hand."

" _You_? You can't! Her mother's line is barren of any magic!" His father's face is crumpled and red with fury. He storms from his seat, the wooden chair thrown to the floor. "No child of mine will marry into any bloodline so inferior, royal or not! I forbid it!"

The rejection stings, and some part of him had always known it would be impossible. But he had _hoped—_

"Ah—is this the boy?"

His father's face smoothes itself, and Kuja's head raises itself in shock—that _voice_ —it couldn't be.

But to his horror, it is; from nowhere a woman steps in view, as if a great typhoon descending upon a rainforest, a wind shuddering through the palace. She is recognizable anywhere, especially in Ariavat, where her appearances can be as sudden as it is now, or as anticipated as the stars aligning.

Still on his knees, Kuja presses his forehead to the cold alabaster floor. For all the inattention his actions receive at the Ariavatan court, he never forgets his courtesies, especially those paid to the most revered magicians of the Triangle. "Grand magister," He breathes.

"What's this talk of marriage, now?"

His father is quick to answer. "Mameyoshi's eldest daughter."

"Ah. Sayuri. To the Caeran prince, yes? What was his name? Alexander. We expect much of the two."

She—she shouldn't be here. There could only be one reason why she was here, and yet Kuja couldn't bring himself to accept it—after all this time, why _now?_

And of all the people, why _him_?

Like every other instance in his life, he wishes it is his sister being offered this honor— _once more,_ he pleads—he is nothing but the younger brother; the unimportant second child, and yet—

It would be foolish to wish for anything else.

Everything happens for a reason, and that reason is fate. _This_ is the true reason why he was called back; _this_ is the hand of fate. It is just as the magisters say.

A weathered finger is lifting his chin up. The grand magister's face is young and ancient all at once. She smiles, though she makes no move to wipe the stray tear running down his cheek.

"As I understand it, the life of the inferior second-born is not very enviable," She says. It is amusement and pity and guidance all at once. "But anything can be learned, and from there, everything gained. You have much greater things ahead of you; what is a girl compared to eternity?"

* * *

Notes:

The "Discontinued" tag on both _Pale Fire_ and _1001 Nights,_ I suppose, is just for show. What surprises me is even after all this time of not updating, people will write the nicest things about my fanfiction - so this update (and return to writing) is dedicated to those people. Chapter 18 of _PF_ will be up in a couple of days.

(1) Today's summary is from Dante Alighieri's _Inferno._

(2) "Her mother's line is barren of any magic" - that's referring to Sayuri's mother. Ariavatan marriage custom was mentioned at about Chapter 5, and this entire oneshot is just the explanation of the conversation Shiro has with Koumei in that chapter.

(3) This is, technically at this point in time, _not_ the first mention of the grand magister. I toy with the idea of fate and destiny here, obviously, and a bunch of other ideas we don't really talk much of in _PF._ It's not spoilerrific if we'll talk about it eventually in _PF...right?_

I guess this'll be the last oneshot I'll write with Kuja's POV in entirety? He's obviously an older, wiser, and really different person now, and he knows way too much for his own good, so...


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